


Subrogate (Stepping In)

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Subrogate [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam scares the crap out of Dean. Dean cools off and comes back with confession (and sex!) on the agenda. Things go badly after that.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Subrogate (Stepping In)

They’re not even back to the clearing and the Impala yet, and Dean has barely stopped to breathe between curses and the rant he's been spinning since they started walking. Sam tunes him out and focuses on not letting the mud underfoot trip him up and send him sprawling. The slice across his back already stings like a mother, and mud in the wound would be a perfect end to a shitty day.

“…because I swear, one more dumb-ass stunt like that and I am locking you in the goddamn _trunk_ next time.” Which isn’t really fair, but Sam just sighs dramatically and keeps walking. There’s no point trying to convince Dean that his dumb-ass stunt is the only reason they’re still breathing.

Too long a drive takes them back to the motel, and Dean still hasn’t stopped seething and finding creative ways to call Sam an idiot. The words stumble angrily all over themselves as he stitches up the nasty looking gash along his brother’s back. It’s not nearly as deep as both of them feared, but Sam can tell rational discourse still isn’t welcome. Pointing out that the hunt is over, the Gargoyle is dust and the two of them are both alive won’t win him anything tonight.

He occupies himself with wishing they had some harder painkillers and lets all the synonyms for “moron” flow past him unheeded. A guilty little corner of Sam’s brain revels outright at the tirade. Because Dean this angry means he’s scared shitless, and sometimes even an ass-backward glimpse behind the façade is a relief.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks once the wound is dressed. His eyes follow as Dean slips back into his jacket and towards the door. The stream of angry words has tapered off, but the air is still humming with the tension of Dean’s own special overprotective fury.

“Out,” he snaps, voice low. “Don’t wait up.”

He takes the car when he goes, and Sam knows he’s off to seek distraction in one of the three dingy bars they passed on their way into town. He knows that distraction will probably take the form of shapely legs under too short a skirt, swallows the irritation that follows the thought. He also knows that, if distraction is lacking, Dean will park the car somewhere off the road and sleep in the back seat, because he’s _that_ pissed off. In the morning he’ll wake up either sated or sore, but calm enough to head for a new hunt and never discuss it again until the next time he’s decided Sam is trying too hard to get himself killed.

They both have their phones, and Sam isn’t worried. He’s also too hopped up on adrenaline to sleep, so he boots up the laptop and settles into the silence by the window. If there are any potential gigs nearby he’ll find them. Preferably ones that don’t involve vicious stone beasts that can only be vanquished in the dead of night, but if it means having a direction to point when his brother returns, Sam Winchester will take what he can find.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three hours later he hasn’t found much, and the upside-down floral print of the wallpaper is pushing him towards the bounds of sanity. He tries not to look at it, but it keeps mocking him from his peripheral vision. The computer clicks resignedly shut under his fingers as he surrenders his hopes.

The sound of the door unlocking has him standing in half a heartbeat, and he’s not sure whether to feel relief or concern when Dean steps back into the room.

“Dude, what are you doing back so soon?” He leaves the ‘Aren’t you still pissed at me?’ unspoken and settles for a quirked eyebrow. Dean doesn’t respond, face unreadable as he takes his jacket off and chucks it in the corner by the door.

He crosses the room in a movement so sudden that Sam might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching with such close, brotherly concern. Dean is right there, _clinging_ to Sam, face buried against his shoulder, and Sam’s suddenly not sure what to do with his hands.

“You’re still an idiot, Sammy,” Dean mutters. “Don’t you _get_ that I can’t lose you?”

Something in the words, or maybe in the way Dean says them, catches hard in Sam’s gut, and he reaches up to return the awkward embrace. He resists the urge to press a kiss to Dean’s temple and bury his face against hair scratchy with gel. The gesture might not be _that_ far out of brotherly bounds, but it’s also not something they do. Of course, Dean clinging to him like he is, that’s not something they do either. Sam pretends it isn’t doing strange things to his heart rate.

“Dean--” he starts to say, and is abruptly derailed by the unexpected press of Dean’s lips against his own. A beat passes. Then two. On three, Sam is sliding his hands up his brother’s neck and returning the kiss with an eagerness that speaks a little too clearly of how long he’s been thinking about this.

The beats have completely lost count, and both of them are breathing hard when Sam finally manages to reassemble his brain and push Dean away, gentle but insistent. This is too much like all the things he’s been trying not to think about, and in all the time he’s been looking quietly at Dean, wouldn’t he have noticed his brother looking back? Dean’s skin feels warm beneath Sam’s fingers as he searches dark eyes for answers he doubts he’ll find.

“Dean, where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to ask, and he curses inwardly when Dean tears away from his hands, dodges halfway across the room and turns his back.

“I figured it out, Sammy,” he says after too long a pause. “I was thinking about it too hard, maybe, but I finally figured it out. Why you keep trying to get yourself killed on my account lately. Why you _look_ at me that way. All the time.”

Sam, moving for Dean’s retreated form, stops short. He suddenly can’t tell whether the hope or the terror is winning the battle in his chest, and he doesn’t dare breathe.

The look in Dean’s eyes when he spins and locks them on Sam has Hope stomping victorious all over Terror’s face, and Sam sucks in an unsteady breath.

“Dean…” he breathes. Doesn’t care that he’s suddenly not capable of coherent thought beyond his brother’s name.

“I’m sorry if I’m misreading things,” Dean sounds suddenly uncertain. “And… and you need to tell me, if I am. You need to tell me to back off.” The words tumble out of his mouth, and Sam just stares, not daring for a second to believe what he’s hearing. He can’t afford to screw this up, because if Dean pushes him away now, there won’t be enough superglue in the world to put his pieces back together.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Dean says. He moves suddenly back into Sam’s space, head tilted and gaze seeking with a new desperation. “Tell me I’m wrong right this second, because if I’m not…” He swallows hard and one tentative hand settles over Sam’s heart. It rests there a moment before sliding up, and up, and finding the rushing pulse point at his throat. “I _need_ this, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t hear so much as _feel_ the strangled sound he makes as Dean leans up and in, and for a second he’s still not sure which of them it came from. This second kiss is softer than the first. Coaxing, as if asking belated permission. Sam’s not sure when his hands got a grip on Dean’s arms, but he fights to keep them from straying.

Dean pulls back just far enough to whisper, “Tell me this is okay, Sam. Please.” And even if the factual reality of Dean kissing him hadn’t undermined any remaining hesitance, even if Sam could think of a single reason not to do this, the desperation in that plea would have undone him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes. Fuck, Dean, yes.” He dives back into the kiss with everything he has, everything he is and ever hoped for. He pulls Dean tight against him, and it’s not more than ten seconds before their hips are grinding heavily together. They’re both making downright embarrassing sounds now, straight into each other’s mouths, as matching erections strain hard against denim and each other.

One of Sam’s hands cups Dean’s skull to get just the right angle as his tongue slides easily past parted lips. The other slides lower, making its way into Dean’s back pocket and resting there like a question.

Because Sam wants more. He’s thought about this too long and hard for kissing Dean to be anywhere near enough, but he’s not sure how far he can take things. Dean started this. Dean gets to set the pace, because right now Sam can’t tell _where_ his brother’s head is at. The last thing he wants is to push too far, too fast if it means losing this as quickly as it started.

His worries dissolve as Dean’s hands slip between them to attack the fly of Sam’s jeans. Apparently they _are_ on the same page, and Sam groans approval into his brother’s mouth as he slides greedy fingers up and under Dean’s t-shirt. There are too many layers between them. Too much fabric, and too many buttons, and Dean growls into the kiss and slides their hips maddeningly together.

Sam grabs the hem of Dean’s shirt and breaks away just long enough to snarl “Off!” and yank it over his head. Dean returns the favor, cursing in frustration at the too-damn-many buttons of Sam’s flannel. The beast is eventually vanquished, buttons and all, and tossed aside as Dean reclaims his mouth with a hungry surge of tongue and teeth.

Sam swears, words colorful but indecipherable against smirking lips, when Dean’s hand slips down the open front of his pants and fists around his cock. Fingers too quick and talented have him burying his face against his brother’s throat and clinging hard to anything he can, hard enough to leave bruises. He’s so close he can taste it, or maybe that’s just Dean beneath his tongue.

The hand disappears in an unexpected instant, and Sam bites off a strangled curse. “Why are you stopping?” he asks, proud that his voice sounds more concerned than frustrated.

“Not like this.” Dean kisses and licks at the skin just below his ear. “Don’t want you coming like this.”

“Dean, what—“

“ _Inside_ me, Sammy.” He says the words in a rush, like he knows how horrible the sentiment sounds but has to say it anyway, and levels a look at Sam that says in no uncertain terms that he’s _not_ repeating himself.

The words hit Sam so hard that every axon in his brain misfires at once, and the almost physical shock has him surprised he’s not already sticky, spent and useless from the growled demand alone. Dean takes his complete lack of response as the affirmative it is, and dashes across the room to dig in the pocket of his discarded coat.

He sheds both pants and boxers on his way back, but Sam has only a moment to admire the unobstructed view before Dean is right there again, pressing something into his hand, and he already knows it’s lube. He laughs when Dean mirrors his frustrated “Off!” with a tug at Sam’s remaining layers of clothing, and he readily complies. Leans eagerly in to trace lips and tongue and teeth along Dean’s collar as he lets himself be drawn to the nearest bed.

Dean like this defies description. The reality is almost too much, and Sam thinks he could drown in the sight of Dean beneath him, back twisting into the mattress and legs spread wide in invitation. Dean arches greedily up against his preparing fingers, forcing them faster, deeper. He shakes his head adamantly when Sam asks about condoms.

“Dude, you’re not going to get me pregnant,” he points out, tone amused but voice breathy, face helplessly flushed. His expression softens, and there’s that almost desperate look again as he says, “Sammy, please.”

Sam is lost to that tone and helpless against the plea it carries. He bites back a groan and empties more of the lube into his hand, slicks himself up without breaking free of Dean’s darkening gaze.

His brother’s body is tight and impossibly hot, gradually relaxing to let him in. He moves as slowly as he can bear, until Dean expresses his impatience with a thrust of his own that urges Sam deeper, faster. They establish a rhythm almost immediately, eager and slick. Sam can’t believe how completely perfect it feels, with Dean’s legs wrapped around him, Dean’s body arching against him and drawing him deeper with every thrust, each less careful than the last.

Sam leans in to kiss him again, and it’s hungry, sloppy, _grateful_. When Dean throws his head back against the pillow, Sam knows he’s hit just the right spot. He matches it a second time, then a third, and licks the offered line of his brother’s throat. His hand between them slides along the hot, slick flesh of Dean’s cock in counterpoint to the escalating pace of their movements.

Sam pulls back, just far enough to _look_ , and marvels at how beautiful his brother is like this. Breath catches in his throat when Dean’s eyes open and lock hungrily onto him.

“ _Christ_ , Dean,” he breathes.

And everything shatters. Dean flinches, and those eyes, still locked with his own, blink suddenly black. Dawning horror sinks instant and nauseous into Sam’s gut. He tries to pull away, _out_ , but Dean’s legs are holding him too tightly, arms wrapped close and grasping at Sam’s shoulders.

“No,” Sam whispers.

Dean’s eyes stay black as his face slides into a slow, easy smirk. He tightens his legs, locks his ankles more stubbornly behind Sam’s back. When he bucks upwards, the movement forces Sam’s cock deeper, making him hiss. He can’t still his hips as this thing that isn’t Dean forces their bodies back into a heavy, grinding rhythm.

“He wants you,” the thing says, voice thick with amusement and still wearing that damn smirk. “It tears him up inside how badly he wants you. He’d take one of his own guns to his head before he’d lay a finger on you, you know. Lucky _one_ of you's got no willpower.”

“No!” The denial is loud and ragged, but the thing rocks Dean’s hips up against him again and the edge is right _there_.

“See you in a second, Tiger,” it says, and Sam is so close it hurts as the black slides from Dean’s eyes to be replaced with confusion.

“Sam?”

“Dean, your legs… you have to… I can’t--" But it’s not nearly warning enough, and Dean’s eyes widen in horrified revelation as Sam’s orgasm rocks both of them. Dean’s own traitorous body is too close to the edge, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he comes just seconds later in a sticky mess between them.

Sam is shaking when he collapses atop Dean, numb and shattered, and he has no idea what happens now. Dean is shaking harder than him, if that’s physically possible, and Sam has to get across the room to their equipment. Journal, holy water, rosary. He has to pull out and get away, but minutes pass before Dean stops shuddering long enough to unhook his ankles and let his legs fall aside.

“Get the hell off me, Sam.” His voice is hoarse and heavy and on the edge of frantic. Sam tries to be gentle when he slides free, but the movement still elicits a discomfited grunt. He rolls aside when Dean shoves at him, watches his brother scramble away and fall to his knees on the threadbare carpet between the beds.

When Dean glances back at Sam over his shoulder, his eyes slide almost casually to black. The smirk on his face is back, and it makes Sam queasy. It’s too close to real, normal, _his_ Dean, and he freezes in place.

“Thanks for the ride, kid,” says the thing wearing his brother. “It’s been terrific.” Then Dean is screaming, head thrown back and black smoke pouring from his mouth. The smoke circles the room once, still somehow mocking, and disappears through the bathroom vent.

With the last of the intruder gone, Dean slumps forward. Sam watches as his shoulders hunch in, his body trying to shake itself apart. Sam’s own body feels numb, except it’s not just his body. Everything is suddenly suspended, hovering just outside reality, and he’s still wondering a helpless ‘now what?’

It’s a bad idea, and he knows it. Knows he should stay the hell away, but he can’t keep himself from standing. And once standing it’s only two steps to his brother, and reaching down to grasp his shoulder with a terrified “Dean?” on his lips.

Whatever he was expecting, he isn’t surprised when the response is a violent shrug out from under his touch.

“Don’t,” Dean says, and the word singes the air around them. He stands in a jerky motion, and this time Sam keeps his distance. The bathroom door clicks locked, and the sound of the shower is almost instantaneous.

Sam stares at the closed door for too many beats, but there’s nothing besides water to be heard. He finally dresses, albeit in the numb haze that seems to permeate the air around him, and collapses to the edge of the bed. Reality threatens to close in too fast, and the disjointed fog abandons him.

He’s got nowhere else to be and no idea what to do, and Sam Winchester buries his head in his hands and chokes on the urge to fall apart.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean is eerily still when he finally emerges from too long in the shower. Heat and steam erupt from the door behind him, evidence alongside the raw pink of his skin that the shower was too hot. A towel is slung around his waist, but he moves straight for his duffel and dresses in quick, mechanical motions. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, doesn’t raise his head from his hands until he feels Dean staring down at him, still and silent.

Their eyes lock across the room, and Sam can’t read a damn thing in that guarded expression. Though he knows the choking terror must be flashing clear and desperate on his own face. He’s still hunched over, perched on the side of the unused bed with his elbows on his knees. He feels like even his posture is pleading.

It’s Dean that finally breaks eye contact, moving to sit beside Sam. Not too close, he mirrors his brother’s pose almost exactly.

“You get one chance to explain this, Sam.” And Sam can hear the fury, stark beneath the forced stillness of his brother’s words and movements. “One chance, and it had better be the whole damn truth. What the _hell_ happened?”

Amidst the storm of shame-guilt-fear, Sam is suddenly filled with a new and blinding awe at Dean. Dean who just woke up to his little brother fucking him. Dean who’s sitting there, all shuddering tension buried beneath deliberate calm, willing to hear what Sam has to say. Dean who’s waiting for an explanation before he passes judgment because, just maybe, it wasn’t Sam’s fault. He could have been possessed, could have been _threatened_ somehow, and Dean sits there strong enough to bury his rage until he knows for sure.

Sam honestly doesn’t know if he can fool Dean, but he knows he’s got no right to try. Which doesn’t mean he has the slightest idea how to go about this conversation. He’s got nothing, not a single goddamn clue.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks, and it’s not a stall tactic. He needs to know how long that _thing_ was masquerading as his brother. How long since he should have realized something was wrong.

“This hotel,” Dean answers warily. “The parking lot outside, I guess. I just finished patching up _your_ sorry ass.” Sam can hear the impatience in his voice, but relief nearly drowns him just the same. A matter of hours, and Dean was gone for most of them. He still should have seen it, but he’d feared days, maybe a week or more. His eyes sliding shut are the only outward manifestations of the minute lessening of tension in his body.

“You told me not to wait up,” he says quietly. He forces himself to look at Dean and doesn’t back down when his brother returns the stare. “I didn’t think you’d be back until morning. You… came back a lot sooner than that.”

Sam can see two questions warring behind Dean’s eyes. ‘What have you done?’ battles against ‘Did it hurt you?’ Dean stays silent, apparently unable to decide which one to voice.

“So you don’t remember. Not a thing.” Sam’s tone is resigned. If only they could get on to the yelling and punching stage without Sam needing to find the strength for confession.

But his brother just stares at him in response. The look on his face is one of utter bewilderment, one that would be amusing in so many circumstances that aren’t this. It’s a look that says ‘of course not, dumbshit, or I wouldn’t have been so surprised to find your dick up my ass.’ Sam heaves a hysterical sound that’s not quite a sob and definitely not a laugh, chokes it off and buries his face back in his hands.

And just like that Dean’s conundrum resolves itself, concern winning out over betrayed confusion, and he’s closed the careful distance and put himself right at Sam’s side. He sets one hand hard on his brother’s arm, the other a firm press against his back. His eyes are wide as he asks “Sammy? Are you okay? Shit, what did it do to you?”

It’s too much, and Sam hauls himself off the bed and away from Dean’s worried hands. He’s pacing before he consciously realizes it, his palms scrubbing restlessly at his face. He tries to wrap his thoughts into words that will explain, apologize, repair, and nothing comes. Just the agony of realizing that it’s going to be Dean that leaves this time, and he’s got every damn right to do it.

He’s not even consciously aware of how long he’s been pacing, how long he’s let the silence stretch, until Dean speaks.

“Look, man, if that thing hurt you—"

“It didn’t,” Sam cuts him off.

“But you knew it wasn’t me, right? You had a plan? Sam?”

And this is where they are. The crux, the boiling point, the place where everything spins out of control and just keeps going. This is where the lie would go, if Sam had it in him. A simple reassurance that yes, he knew. Yes, he had a plan. It might have involved sex with a demon in Dean’s body, but Sam was well on his way to fixing everything with the power of his enormous brain.

“No,” he says instead. “I didn’t have a plan.” _And I did think it was you_ , they both hear.

Dean’s face shatters at the admission, and in half a heartbeat all the brotherly concern bleeds out from his face. Replaced by a cold mask of disjointed fury that has him up from the bed and as far from Sam as he can get without hiding in the bathroom.

“What the _fuck_ , Sam?! What were you _thinking_?” he demands. “I wouldn’t. Not _ever_.” He only manages to look at his little brother for a moment before his eyes start dodging their way over everything else in the room instead.

“I _wasn’t_ thinking!” Sam explodes. The words are nowhere near what he meant to say, but it’s the most truth he’s spoken yet. It’s all barbed edges, and he knows it’s going to tear them to messy shreds. “I wasn’t thinking.” He swipes unruly bangs from his face in a gesture as futile as his words. “But it came out of nowhere, Dean, and I didn’t know what to think. I can’t… god, Dean, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sam keeps repeating those last three words, or a litany of something like them, as his legs give out beneath him. He finds his ass planted on the floor and pulls his knees up tight against his face, arms wrapped around them in a defeated slump.

He should know by now not to underestimate his brother’s protective instinct. Because suddenly, again, Dean is right _there_. Crouching on the floor in front of Sam, hand hovering like he wants to set it on one of Sam’s clenched fists.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What’s to tell?” Sam’s voice sounds dull to his own ears, and he doesn’t raise his head to look at his brother. “You came back after just a couple hours. You reminded me I was an idiot again, and then…”

“Then _what_ , Sam?”

“What do you _think_ , Dean?”

But his brother just stares at him, Sam can feel it, and when did his hand give up its indecisive hovering and close around Sam’s like that? He forces himself to drag his face away from his knees and look Dean square in the eyes before answering.

“All those things you wouldn’t ever? I let you do them.” Sam chokes down an impotent noise of frustration and tells himself it doesn’t sound like a whimper. “It was a demon. It’s gone now. It let you back in just in time for…” and he can’t say it, so he skips over it. “And after, it just left. Like it had already finished whatever it came for.”

Sam can tell his brother wants more. Information to gauge whether Sam should have known, or what this thing could _possibly_ have said that would have Sam ready and willing in the face of the thousand levels of wrong and all impossibility. But Sam is stretched too thin already. He’s got nothing more to offer, and now he has a question of his own.

“Before it left,” the words are barely a whisper, and Dean has to strain forward to hear them. “It said something. About you. And I know demons lie, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes when the truth is worse--"

“What did it say?” Dean interrupts. His grip tightens around Sam’s hand.

“It said you wanted me,” Sam says. Dean’s jaw clenches at the admission, but Sam covers his grip with his own free hand and presses on. “That you wanted me, and that it was tearing you up inside.”

Suddenly Dean _is_ moving, getting his legs under him and yanking his hand away. Sam is faster, captures the retreating limb by the wrist. He holds tightly and freezes Dean right where he is, stuck in a position that’s still mostly crouch. Their eyes lock in an indecipherable exchange.

“It also said you’d never lay a hand on me. I know that part was true. What about the rest?”

“Sam, don’t.” Dean looks away.

“Because if the rest is true,” Sam swallows and feels a little sick. “If the rest is true, you’re not the only one.”

Dean’s eyes go impossibly wide, and it takes barely an instant for them to snap back up and lock with Sam’s. It’s almost automatic for Sam to reach out with one hand, the one not occupied impeding Dean’s flight, and touch his brother’s face. Dean’s eyes slide shut, and a soft, startled sound slips past barely parted lips. But he doesn’t jerk away, and Sam takes that as encouragement. He lets his fingers trace along Dean’s cheekbones, his jaw, his chin.

It’s when he slides a thumb across that nearly obscene lower lip that Dean yanks finally and suddenly free from his grasp. There are several steps separating them in a wary instant, a “No, Sam” on his brother’s lips that neither of them quite knows how to interpret.

Then Dean is by the door, picking up his jacket and shrugging into it. Making his escape for the second time since twilight.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, not missing the irony in the repetition. He stands on shaky legs.

“Out. Again.” Dean grabs his key. “Don’t you dare follow me out this door. And for the love of god, make sure it’s _me_ when I come back. Lay a salt line or something.”

Sam Winchester watches the door slam shut and wonders how long he has before he loses his brother for good.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning is sunless, the outside air wet and heavy with fog. Dean’s bed is, unsurprisingly, still empty when Sam opens his eyes. He listens without much hope for the growl of a car engine as he goes about his morning routine. The three showers he took before managing to fall asleep didn’t help much, and he doesn’t bother taking another.

It’s already time for them to check out when Dean pulls up by the door. Sam is occupied stuffing the last of their dirty laundry into the duffel, but he sees his brother stride unflinchingly over the line of salt laid obediently along the floor. Everything feels awkward and unsteady, and their eyes lock in something that isn’t quite communication.

“Dean…”

“Give me your room key,” Dean jumps in before Sam has a chance to figure out where his words are going. “I’ll check us out while you load the car.”

“Why do I have to load the car?” Sam asks. It seems like the normal thing to say.

“Because I’m the oldest and you’re the whiney little bitch. Key.” He holds his hand out expectantly, and if his delivery is a little off they both pretend not to hear it. Sam readily hands over his key, and twenty minutes later they’re on the nearest interstate heading west.

Twelve minutes have passed in complete silence, thirteen rapidly approaching, when Sam pulls himself out of his own dark musings long enough to notice that Dean hasn’t turned any music on. He tries to keep his glance discreet, soon realizing he needn’t have worried. Dean’s face is heavy with his own thoughts.

Sam watches unnoticed for several miles, brotherly concern and crippling guilt double-teaming to make him feel a level of wretched he never realized existed. Dean isn’t yelling at him. Dean isn’t threatening to drop him at the nearest bus station. Dean made an effort at status quo when he drove in for checkout. Sam’s not sure what all that means beyond the fact that he should keep his mouth shut.

He tries. He gives it a genuine effort as fifteen miles turn into fifty, and their course takes them south. His eyes drift from road, to countryside and back to his brother in the unnerving silence of the car.

“Dean.” The silence shatters, and he hadn’t really meant to speak. His brother startles from wherever he was, and the car swerves with his surprise. He spares a glance at Sam before returning his focus to the road, eyes narrow.

“Don’t,” he says, voice quiet and encompassing an entire conversation that they’re not going to have. Sam hears _back off_ and _not now_ and _you don’t get to decide we’re talking about this_. He hears ominous warning and swallows against the urge to push. Because all those things in his brother’s voice are immovable commands, and disobeying is not an option.

Sam gives the only response he can. He reaches out and turns on the radio, immediately finding a station that will earn him a punch in the arm and a comment about shotguns, cake-holes and the horrible failure that is Sam’s musical education.

Dean doesn’t disappoint, though instead of a punch in the arm he whacks Sam in the back of the head on his way to digging through his slowly deteriorating box of cassettes.

They’re only half sure where they’re driving to, no idea what they’ll find when they get there. Sam Winchester resigns himself to an eternity of staring at the passing scenery, because Dean gets to call these shots. Which means they are _never_ going to talk about it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s a week later, maybe two. Sam has been trying not to count, and the Naga two towns back was a fortunate distraction. It was also exhausting, and the false alarm of a haunted house forty miles later was actually a relief after teeth that sharp. They’ve been on the road again since dawn, and Sam is well on his way to hypnotizing himself with the trees flying past his window.

The tires are crunching on gravel by the time he realizes that Dean has pulled off the dead county road and stopped the car. He stares for a moment in complete incomprehension, finally follows when Dean gets out and leans heavily on the hood. Sam mimics his pose and fights the almost overpowering urge to dive into the sudden silence with all the words he’s been resisting. Instead he bites his tongue and waits the interminable minutes for his brother to organize his thoughts.

“You asked me if the rest of it was true,” Dean says at long, desperate last. “And I didn’t answer.”

“Dean, what--”

“Shut up, Sam. You damn well know what I’m talking about. Don’t play stupid, or I’m not saying a thing.”

Sam plays the smart card and shuts up. When silent seconds drag into minutes, he wonders if he’s blown his one chance at getting his brother talking. He scuffs his shoe in the gravel and doesn’t breathe again until Dean continues.

“So… yeah. The rest of it was true. And I figure that’s how the thing got in to begin with, or we would _not_ be having this conversation.” Tension rests in his shoulders, tightening with every word out of his mouth, and he won’t even look at Sam now. “As chinks in the armor go, this one’s sort of a whopper.”

“Dean, it’s okay.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he barely manages not to flinch when his brother’s eyes widen in startled disbelief.

“No. It’s not. And it’s never _going_ to be,” Dean bites back. “If it had gotten to you instead of me? I don’t know if I would’ve been strong enough, Sam. And I’m supposed to take care of you!”

“God, Dean, I don’t believe you sometimes. I screwed up, and your response is to guilt over the way it _might_ have happened?”

Dean flinches at that, and Sam ignores the guilty twitch in his gut as he levels intense eyes at his brother and keeps right on with his point.

“Yeah, remember that? _I_ screwed up. I fucked _you_ , Dean. Maybe we could go back to you being pissed at me, because that at least made sense.” He shoves off the hood with a frustrated sound and paces a couple steps from the car.

“ _How_ , Sam? How can I go back to pissed off when I don’t even know what happened? When every time--” Dean was moving, following, but he cuts himself abruptly off and stands frozen. The sun picks that moment to emerge from a thick cloudbank, the first time all morning. The light makes them squint and provides glaring highlight to Dean’s attempts not to meet his little brother’s eyes.

“When every time…?” Sam prompts, stepping carefully closer and placing himself directly, unavoidably in Dean’s line of sight.

Dean just shakes his head, jaw tight.

“When every time _what_ , Dean?”

The force of his brother’s eyes locking with his own is so hard and sudden that Sam almost stumbles back. But Dean is _looking_ at him now, and his expression is dark, drowning. His gaze pins Sam where he stands, and when he speaks the words are shattered.

“When every time I close my eyes all I can see is that goddamn horrified look on your face.”

“Dean, no…”

“I’ve done some bad things, Sammy. Job like ours, it sort of comes with the territory, but this…” His voice catches, drops almost to a whisper, and he’s not looking anymore. “There’s not enough guilt in the world for the things I want from you.”

The air constricts around them, or it feels like it, and all Sam can think is that the look on Dean’s face is wrong. Wrung out and empty, like a confession that’s come too late, and he needs to wipe it away.

Kissing Dean is a bad idea, monumental in its stupidity, and Sam knows it. But the knowledge doesn’t deter his legs from closing the distance between them, or his arms from sliding around and pulling his brother close. Dean doesn’t return the kiss for even a second before pushing him away, but it’s a weak push and doesn’t put nearly enough space between them.

“No,” he says. He’s not trying to pull free from the hands that still rest at his waist. “Sam, I can’t do this. _We_ can’t do this.”

“Why? Because it’s wrong?”

“ _Yes_ it’s wrong!” And Dean is staring at him like he’s crazy again, like he’s trying to turn the world upside down in ways it’s not supposed to go. He yanks free from his brother’s hold and backs away a little unsteadily. “It’s _incest_ , Sam. There are lines even _we_ don’t get to cross, and that right there? Top of the goddamn list.”

Which isn’t what Sam wants to hear, not when even the air is whispering with how badly they both want this. But the impasse is heavy between them. The sun ducks back out of sight while they stare each other down, wanting things they’re not allowed across an invisible wall.

Sam follows obediently when Dean moves for the driver’s side door and tells him to get his ass back in the car. The denial mask is back, and Sam Winchester doesn’t dare push. Not yet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s almost a month later and thirty minutes shy of the Canadian border when Sam finally caves to the urge to push. He might have held out longer, but this stretch of interstate is cold and boring, and he’s been driving for four hours. It’s been at least two since Dean stopped bickering with him about the radio and started his marathon of horizon-staring stupor.

“Dean, I’ve been thinking,” Sam says when he sees the blue Rest Area sign. He doesn’t bother to elaborate as he pulls off the freeway and finds a parking spot far removed from the building and any other cars. It’s snowing out, and the sunset would probably be gorgeous if any of it were visible beneath the gray.

“Thinking about what?” Dean asks. The engine cutting out only emphasizes his wary tone.

“About lines. About crossing them.”

Dean doesn’t pretend not to understand the month-old reference. He _does_ refuse to look at Sam, leveling his gaze out the window at the stationary horizon instead.

Sam knows he could try to make a logical argument. He’s certainly spent enough of the past month formulating them. But logic won’t actually help with Dean sitting there stubbornly closing himself off.

“I want to kiss you,” he says instead.

“What?!” Dean spins to stare at him so fast he’s probably got whiplash, and the blindsided look on his face isn’t actually a surprise. “Sam, you don’t--”

But it’s not ‘no,’ and Sam is across the bench in an instant, pressing Dean against the door in a kiss full of quiet questions. He keeps it chaste, a slow, deliberate press of lips before he pulls just far enough away to meet Dean’s eyes. He stays close, hand balancing him against the dashboard as he hovers just within his brother’s personal space.

Dean whispers his name, and it sounds positively tormented. The sudden stab of guilt has Sam swallowing hard, but he doesn’t back down. A month of ignoring this hasn’t helped, and both of them are wearing thin.

“I want this, Dean.” His tone is deliberately reasonable; his eyes steady with intent as he holds their gazes locked. “I want a chance to do it right.”

“There _is_ no right way to do this, Sam. That hasn’t changed. It’s still _wrong_. I’m still supposed to be looking out for you, not… not _this_.” Dean’s eyes are wild, but they don’t break away.

“ _This_ isn’t something you can protect me from,” Sam points out, still quiet, still reasonable. “It doesn’t work that way. These feelings? They’re mine, and I’d be feeling them no matter _what_ you did.”

“God damnit, Sam, you’re my _brother_. The fact we both think we want this doesn’t make that okay!”

“So, what, we keep pretending it’s not there?” Sam’s voice rises suddenly, sharply with the words, and he forces himself softer. “This is killing us. I know you can feel it, too.”

“We do this, it might kill us anyway. It’ll definitely kill Dad.” But there’s something newly resigned in Dean’s voice.

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Sam is expecting any number of responses, but the dry, humorless laugh he gets isn’t one of them. It’s at once so out of place and so very, perfectly _Dean_ that Sam aches. He tilts his head and tries to read his brother’s face in the fading light.

“You want to have a secret affair with your own brother,” Dean observes in his half-mocking ‘college boy’ voice. “How does that square with the safe-and-normal you keep telling me you’re going back to.”

“It doesn’t,” Sam admits. “But that doesn’t matter, Dean. Not anymore. Everything has gone straight to hell, and you’re all I have.”

“Well. That’s flattering. How long have I been your last resort, little brother?”

The words sting, and Sam snaps “I didn’t mean it like that!” with venom that he doesn’t intend.

“And how did you mean it?”

“I mean that you’re _all I have_ , and the thought of losing you scares the hell out of me. If we killed the demon tomorrow, that wouldn’t change. You’d still be all I have, and I’d still rather die than lose you.”

“Sam--”

“I’m not leaving, Dean. Not again. I’m seeing this all the way through.” His eyes are pleading, raw and open and leaking bits of his soul, but he needs Dean to _hear_ him.

“And after we kill this thing?” his brother asks, tentative and considering for the first time since Sam pulled over.

“I don’t know,” Sam says through the sudden pounding of his pulse in his ears. “I don’t know if I can keep hunting. But if we both make it through this, I swear we’ll figure it out together.”

A long pause stretches between them, speculative this time. Sam bites his tongue to keep from being the one to break it. The light has mostly vanished now, but for the first time in weeks he thinks he can read his brother’s eyes.

Dean’s voice is a harsh whisper when he finally, _finally_ says, “I still don’t know if I can do this, man.”

“We’ll take it slow, okay?” Sam says, fights to keep the relief out of his voice. “Just… just think about it before you say no. Please.”

Another long, uncertain moment passes before Dean’s murmured “Okay.”

It’s everything, it’s perfect, and it’s so much more than Sam dared hope. He’s been thinking about this long enough to have figured out all the ways it could go wrong, and even now he’s not exactly sure where they stand. An understanding has been reached, but the terms of the agreement remain to be negotiated.

Sam lets the moment hang a little too long after his brother’s response. He wants to kiss Dean again, a real kiss that lets him taste, claim, hold on too tightly. But he’s got no right to lay claim, not until, _unless_ Dean’s decision is ‘yes.’ He wants this enough to be patient, and Dean’s eyes are impossibly wide and staring him down through the thickening darkness.

He harnesses the urge and presses a kiss to his brother’s forehead instead, a gesture that will have Dean calling him a girl once he’s a little less shell-shocked, then backs off to his own side of the car. Dean just stares at him as he starts the engine and maneuvers back onto the highway, flicking the headlights on as almost an afterthought. He still feels his brother’s eyes on him twenty-three miles later, and he knows with painful familiarity the violent cacophony of questions doing battle in Dean’s head.

Nothing is resolved. Not yet. But Sam Winchester can wait.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Subrogation: “n. The substitution of one person for another, especially the legal doctrine of substituting one creditor for another.”


End file.
